My Darling Love
Chapter 74 – Seen and Unseen
"Everyone has three characters, that which they exhibit, that which they have, and that which they think they have."
-Alphonse Karr
Dearest Mrs. Darling,
I always found it so odd that we shared the same title and the same love for a solitary man. Quite differently, as I'm sure you know, George was my favorite son. Is still my favorite son, actually, and just like you, Mary dear, I hate Peter. When George was an infant, no older than four, I had to care for my mother-in-law who was very ill at that time. Peter was older, a man of almost twenty, and I foolishly left my baby boy in his care. At the time, Peter was studying to become a doctor at the local hospital, a place where the poor and destitute went when they were sick. Savages with knives, my husband used to call it, but Peter loved it there. Now I know why.
He took George to a special wing in the hospital that was supposed to be quarantined. He led my favorite son down the corridors, and let him play with the children covered in head to toe rashes of red blisters and chafed peeling skin, coughing and hacking with high fevers all day long. That is all George ever remembered of that day. Two weeks later the man we share came down with a horrendous fever, rash, and a cough so horrible he could not breath. His fever was running hot, and the only thing, I, his mother, could do to bring his temperature down was to lay him in an ice bath. That didn't work, instead, he got worse.
The physician that was called to my home said it was the smallpox that was killing my boy. My husband sent George to the hospital where Peter had originally taken him for my baby boy to be quarantined as well. My husband made me stay home and leave my baby in a hospital to die alone. I sat in my chair, at home, with my rosary beads praying. I know you do not think me a God-fearing woman, but I am. And I prayed. There was not one second that passed that I did not beg the Lord to save my George from the grave. Peter told me that, even if George recovered, he would be a monster, scarred and hideous to gaze upon, he told me it would be better off if he just died. So I started praying that not only he be saved, but God should make him handsome and heal his wounds as well.
Peter returned home, and told me George was all but dead, that the skin on his bones had melted away. If the smallpox didn't kill him, an infection from the filthy instruments he used to treat George would. But somewhere between the star filled sky and the sunlight of morning, I awoke and found my son wide-awake and waiting for me. The doctor that treated him could offer no explanation, only telling me that George would be blind. You know as well as I, Mary, George has needed spectacles, but he was never without his vision. The doctor also told me George may become deaf one day due to the damage, but his hearing is fine and I should know, he always listened to me.
This is how Peter punishes those who get in his way. You are not the only one Peter chased after, Mary. He was also was quite fond of your mother at one time. Oh yes, dear Mary, I remember the story quite well. George running into the house, telling me of how Peter cornered your mother like a wild beast sniffing fresh meat in an alley, and all but raped her in broad daylight. Again, my George was there to save the day. He, only a little boy of four, jumped on top of his brother, who was on top of your mother, ripping off her bloomers, and began smacking him in the head. Peter threw George off and your mother, the former Elizabeth Duvall, fled.
I never liked your mother, and that is why. Some will say it was because of that winter party where George ruined your dress, but that is untrue. The reason is simply this, after my George (nay, not my George but your George) was cured, your lovely polite mother told me he should have died. That would have been a fine punishment for me after birthing a devil in the flesh that stole her virtue. Apparently Mary, your mother's bloomers were already off when George rescued her and my son Peter was all but finished with her. You should thank God it was not you hidden in white born with the surname of Darling instead of Baker. I'm sure it would not have mattered to Peter, he still would have had his way with you, even if you were his own flesh and blood.
My son George is blessed. He should have been a priest. I wanted nothing else in the world than to give him back to God, for that was his true calling. I see now, that I was more correct than ever. I did everything in my power to save you, Mary, but I must warn you, George has the devil in him now. You put it there. You made him a husband and a father, and for that you will pay dearly. Although I suppose what they say is correct. Turnabout is fair play. Here my baby boy gets you in the wrong way on purpose and you go and do the same to him. Setting an appointment to see Satan, were you?
I wonder when it will be? Peter is planning a pretty little party for you and your husband. Oh yes, it is to be a glorious extravaganza, celebrating my funeral, complete with a lovely castle and fine young ladies for the men to delight in. If I were you, I would make sure George is attached to your hip. For as I am sure you are aware, Peter will sacrifice everything to get what he wants. And as far as he is concerned, George is already dead.
You probably did not even read my last few lines when you should commit them to memory. But I understand your worry. Confused, Queen Mary? Did you think George left it in you for he knew no better? His father told him how to give a woman a baby, and he also told him how not to. George meant for you to have that baby girl. Not only did he tell his brother, Harold, he confessed it to me. What do you think he did those months you were trapped in your bedroom? He prayed that God would give that child and that means of escape. And as the days went on and on he cried himself to sleep that his plan failed.
Just one more thing, Mrs. Darling, I want you to know. Be on the lookout for the daughter of your friend, Penny. I would suggest you check the street corners and the pubs late at night. Seems she is a whore like her mother before her. But you knew that already, your son John, named for the saint of silence, is all the proof I will ever need on that measure. You will see Satan indeed, Mary Darling.
Josephine
- Madam, this letter was given to George by his brother Harry, after he arrived back in London. It was mixed in with her personal effects that whomever looked after Mrs. J. Darling had given him as his inheritance. Harry never read the letter. George received for the first time with the seal closing it away from prying eyes, intact. - James
"Goodness, Mother, poor Grandma Elizabeth!" Wendy cried out as she hugged Mary tightly.
Mary only shook her head; "That is why I asked you about my father's letter. I forget you only knew him as a changed man."
"Changed man?" Wendy asked, rereading Grandma Josephine's words once more.
"The man you knew growing up, Wendy, was not my father. Well, he was, just not as he was when I was a child. Grandpa Joe, at least to me, was simply an old man afraid he was going to get locked out of heaven by his own wife."
"Really, Mother, it isn't very nice to speak about Grandpa Joe that way," Wendy exclaimed, more interested in Grandma Elizabeth, his wife, at the moment.
"Wendy, you have no idea what it was like growing up in my house. My father was always horrible to my mother. The worst your father ever did to me? Increase the suffering tenfold, and make it a daily torture, and that, dearest, is what my mother lived through for years. She loved him endlessly, and still he hit her and cheated on her. He was an awful husband, and a wretched man when my mother was alive," Mary said, shaking her head.
"He didn't seem a bad man mother when we were growing up. He was such a loving and adorable creature. I love Grandpa Joe, and I still miss him," Wendy offered, simply stated as it was.
"Like I said, Wendy, the man that raised me and your Grandpa Joe were not one in the same. I remember hearing my parents fight in this very room, as it was their bedroom at the time, when I was only a small child. I can hear it in my mind, as if it happened only a moment ago. He would call her an ungrateful whore, and accuse her of taking another man into the house behind his back. 'I'll show you, Elizabeth, you tramp, I'll take up with some pretty thing and steal my baby girl away and you'll never see either one of us again. We'll leave you like the filthy little whore you are because that's what you deserve!' Then he would hit her and she would plead with him for mercy. In my mind, I can see him. I can see what he did to her in their bed those nights. 'You want mercy Elizabeth? I'll show you mercy!' He was a sober man and never drank, so I can't even blame it on liquor, only on his rage." Mary lowered her head as she went on, ashamed to admit the truth to her daughter, still innocent, unknowing of such wickedness.
"He raped my mother, Wendy. Over and over again, it seemed like almost every night, although I'm sure now it wasn't. But to me, just a child myself, I would cower in the corner and listen to her cry out as their bed hit the wall and he threatened, 'Let me find out which man is the one you're screwing, and I'll kill you both! Now shut up, Elizabeth and take it like I give it!' She would scream and always that unceasing banging of the headboard against my wall."
Mary's eyes held Wendy's with a sincere honesty, "My mother was just like me, a homemaker who doted on her only child, and loved her husband more than herself. My mother never cheated on him, she never brought another man into this house. It was always just she and I, at home alone. And when I went off to school, Aunt Millicent came over to act as a shield for my mother because she knew what her brother was capable of. That is why she didn't want them to marry, Wendy. It had nothing to do with money, for my father was no better off than my mother on those measures. He came from poor relations as well. Aunt Millicent was his sister, she knew of his temper, his unquenchable thirst for revenge. Aunt Millicent knew there was another for my mother before my father…and she knew her brother's jealously of not being my mother's first love would soon boil over and only add to his anger and hositlies towards her."
Mary gazed at Wendy and tried her best to smile. Her best efforts only produced a half frown as she spoke, "It only got worse as I got older. 'If you think I'm going to let some tramp tell me how to raise my daughter, Elizabeth, you are sadly mistaken! I don't care if you birthed her and almost died doing it, I will not have my Mary Elizabeth turn out like the spoiled loose whore you are!' They didn't know I could hear them through my wall in the night. They thought I was sleeping…" Mary put her hand on her knee and leaned over, making Wendy think her mother was about to vomit at the recollection.
"My Aunt Millicent used to capture me each weekend when I was child, and take me to her mansion … I always thought it was because she had no children of her own. She was always picking on me all day long, and correcting me. I used to beg, as I got older to my mother, 'Please don't make me go,' for I hated spending time with Millicent. My mother used to make me go, just to get me out of the house. And if she faltered, my Aunt Millicent would remind her of the time. One look at the clock, and I was sent packing off to Millicent's each weekend. Now I know, my poor mother and my poorer Aunt Millicent were doing their best to keep my mind away from fearing the monster my father was then. They used to sit in the kitchen and talk, and then, 'Mary Elizabeth, it's time to go,' and I would be gone off in a carriage with my meddling, intrusive, rude, arrogant Aunt Millicent. My Aunt Millicent…My own personal patron saint, Saint Millicent… Saint Aunt Millicent was only trying to save me from what I heard of my parents during the day and into the night. She was not only my mother's shield, but mine as well.
"So, when my mother found out that my father made good on his threats and cheated on her, she tried to kill herself. I was just eleven. She slashed her wrists with his shaving razor and went to the church. The priest found her lying in the cemetery, above her own plot. She told my father there was no other man in her life, and if he still didn't believe her, even after all their years together, then he should just let her die and rest in peace. He could have me and he could run away with his pretty little thing and marry her. 'See how well another woman would treat you, Joseph,' she told him. 'See if another woman will love you like I do, and forgive your flaws and still be a good loyal wife to you.' I guess that's why he stopped hitting her and calling her a whore. But the damage was already done. His affairs with other women continued, just so he could show he was the king of the castle and my mother accepted it, and remained that corpse she created that day in the cemetery."
Wendy finally spoke, not really sure what to say to ease the pain on her mother's face. "Grandpa Joe told Father he only had one affair, with the girl that worked at the counter in the bakery, and it was over after only a little while. He just kept her working there out of spite. Is that why Grandpa Joe didn't yell at father, and demand an explanation when he learned of his affair? Because he knew he had done much worse, and he would be the pot calling the kettle black in a way, mother?"
"I don't know, Wendy, truly. Maybe he felt it wasn't his place, the pot calling the kettle black as you say, indeed. He knew what I had seen…"
Mary took a moment to gather her thoughts and clarified, "My father only ever claimed one affair, and that was the same to everyone who knew him, and I guess he might have counted that girl working the counter one affair; after all, the position was the same, just not the face. I'm certain for a time he had at every girl that ever worked at his counter. And there were many. In fact, when I would go to visit the bakery on Saturday to bring him his lunch, I would see them. Sometimes it would be the same girl for months. The one you speak of, he kept on staff for years. Others would come and go, and only last a few weeks. But there that nameless, faceless, girl of no importance would be, after the morning rush, sitting on his lap in the back room, with his hands up their skirts, shifting about in the most inappropriate manner. 'Oh Mary Elizabeth, my lunch. Good! I'm starving; hard work will do that to a man! Tell your mother I won't be coming home until late so don't hold supper for me!' And then to make matters even worse that real life whore in the flesh sitting on his lap would jeer at me, 'Tell your mother I said hello as well sweet Mary Elizabeth,' as if to mock my mother, the saint she was, to stay married to that rat. I hated him then, and he knew it … my mother knew I hated him, and can you even believe it Wendy? That just hurt her more."
"What did you do?" Wendy asked, touching her mother's hands.
"Nothing. What could I do? I was not even thirteen at the time. I watched my mother suffer endlessly. I told her we could run away together and start over, but she wouldn't listen. She would just hug me and kiss me and tell me everything one day would end happily, if not for herself, then at least for me. I asked her on her deathbed, if she had to do it all over again, would she have married my father."
"What did she say, Mother?"
"She said no. She said when she first met him, he was a knight in shining armor who rode in on a stallion and saved the day. He promised to be good to her, and never hit her or beat her or cheat on her. Millicent didn't approve of their match as I've said for her own reasons hidden within her lies, and my father, being brave and courageous, rescued my mother from her tower yet again. They ran off and got married and he carried her in his strong, able arms the whole way from poverty to the lap of luxury. My father, as you remember him, told me he had at my mother before they were married, 'By mistake, Mary Elizabeth, it just sort of happened,' whatever that means. He knew she wasn't a virgin, but was madly in love with her, so, at that time, it didn't matter."
Mary relaxed back on the sofa and crossed her arms, recounting intimate details of her heart as Wendy listened, "Obviously once they were husband and wife, it mattered. He thought back to their first time together months before they wed. He thought of her as loose for letting him get into her bloomers so easily. 'I expected a slap in the face from your mother, but I got her licking my ear and pulling on my trousers, so I figured, to hell with it!' " Mary mocked her father's voice.
"And then to find her already broken, well, good Lord! She must be a whore, for in that day, this was simply not done. My mother, as do all women, had her secrets and the name of the man who had taken her virtue was one of them. She told him it was only one, but he believed one meant many, especially when she would not disclose who specifically it was. I'm sure it had something to do with the fear she had of his temper. Turnabout is fair play in my father's book, so he broke all of his promises to her. No longer the valiant knight, he became the dragon who breathed fire and nipped at the princess locked up the castle. And after all that was, she never tried to seek her own revenge by hating him or willfully breaking his heart. She told me vengeance belongs to God and my father would pay eventually, if he did not change and do right by her."
"My day will come, Mary Elizabeth, I must be patient and steadfast in my penance."
"Around the time I was nearly fifteen, I was dismissed early from Aunt Millicent's and came home to find my mother out on the front stoop. I asked why she sat out in the rain, and she would not answer me. I went inside, just in time to hear my father call, 'Elizabeth! Don't you hear me calling for you woman? Get me something to drink! Bring it upstairs immediately!' I went into the kitchen and gathered a glass of lemonade and brought it to their bedroom. I knocked, he didn't know it was I; he thought I was my mother. 'Good of you to knock, Elizabeth,' he chuckled as he opened the door and went wide-eyed seeing me, his daughter, his only child, standing there."
Wendy went wide-eyed as well, listening to the story. "What happened, Mother? Was he nude? I mean, he was expecting his wife, not his daughter…"
"He was not nude, but wearing his robe," Mary replied, and Wendy sighed in relief, only to cough and gasp at her mother's next revelation, "Although the woman in his bed was bare as the day she was born."
As she choked, and fought to catch her breath, Wendy managed, "What the hell was that man thinking!" Once composed, she cried "He took another woman into his bed with his wife home! Not just his bed, Mother, the one he shared with his wife! He deserves to rot in hell! And to have his only daughter, just an innocent girl find him and some whore together in that way! And his poor wife, made to sit in the rain while her beloved is having it on with another! What did his daughter do?"
Amazing it was to Mary, that her own daughter could distance herself from the tale. In a matter of moments, Wendy had made her own Grandpa Joe, Grandma Elizabeth, and her mother Mary, characters in a horrible story. She touched Wendy's cheek and wiped away the tears that came in her daughter's sorrow. Mary had cried enough that day so long ago, and all the days following, so she shed no tears now, relating clearly, "I told him I hated him. I told him he was a wretched beast who did not deserve a wife or a child of his own, and if he didn't want to be a husband and a father, he should just go away and never come back."
"Good on you, Mother!" Wendy commended, patting Mary on the back. "He must have felt shamefaced and awful for his actions."
"No, he told me to go to my room, 'I'll deal with your disrespectful tongue later, Mary Elizabeth,' he sneered and slammed the door in my face," Mary replied, and Wendy watched her expression as she took a moment to think on that memory. Their eyes met and Mary continued, still in a mild tone, "But I did not go to my room. I went back downstairs and sat with my mother in the parlor. I played the piano and she did needlepoint. The woman came down shortly thereafter, "Good day, Mrs. Baker and the young Miss Baker,' she said sheepishly with her head lowered. Now, she was the one utterly humiliated. My father came down some time later and asked my mother what was for dinner that evening, and my mother said nothing, only rising from her chair to go into the kitchen. I followed my mother's lead and fell into silence. I spoke to not one soul from then on. Not my mother, or my father, Aunt Millicent or my friends. I copied my mother's behavior and became a silent statue, who did not even speak when spoken to."
"It must have been awful mother…" Wendy whispered, lowering her head.
"Eventually, I began to talk again. You must not think I spent the better part of my young womanhood silent. I spoke with my Aunt Millicent first, oddly enough, who told me to have no fear, for she would never allow me to marry a man like my father. She told me not to punish my mother, 'for she suffers enough by his hand,' thus my mother and I began chatting again, and soon my voice returned to everyone else, except my father. I vowed that day, the day he took another woman into the house, shoving his infidelity in my mother's face, I would never speak to him again as long as I lived."
Mary turned completely to face her daughter, gently taking both of Wendy's hands in her own, "The night of your grandparent's winter cotillion, Grandpa Joe told me I was the loveliest young lady when I descended the stairs as we were about to leave. He told me he was sure he would need to beat all the eager young gents off with a stick, for they would surely be knocking one another over just in the hopes of asking me to dance. He held my hands as I hold yours right now, and looked deeply into my eyes. 'Smile for me Mary Elizabeth, kiss your daddy on his cheek, and tell me how happy you are on this special evening, please, dearest love.'"
Tears now filled Mary's tranquil eyes, and she threw Wendy's hands harshly away from her without warning. She turned to hide her face and added, "That is what I did to him. I yanked my hands from his and pushed past him to my Aunt Millicent, who was awaiting me with my shawl at the front door. I acted as though I was the Queen, and he was some imsignificant pauper, begging at me feet. I would not tell him I was happy, nor would I kiss his cheek or smile. He looked to my mother for help in softening my hardened heart, and she did the only thing she could do." Without waiting for Wendy to ask what that "thing" exactly was, Mary squashed the suspense with, "She remained silent. It was my Aunt Millicent who saved the day, rather the night.
"After the fiasco of the evening, your father spilling punch on my gown and the bad words and misdeeds that followed," Mary looked heavenward as she spoke and shook her head, "Saint Millicent blasted into this very house and gave me a piece of her mind, reprimanding my actions so ruthlessly I thought I would cry blood. After she was done with me, she started on my father…" Mary fell silent and rubbed her lovely aged face. She opened the letter Mr. Baker had written years before and began reading it again, acting as if Wendy was no longer in the room beside her.
"Mother," Wendy tapped Mary's hand to gain her attention, "What did Aunt Millicent say to Grandpa Joe?"
"I'm not sure. I don't really remember," Mary replied, lost in her own thoughts. "I was sent to bed, I was probably sleeping."
"Mother!" Wendy whined, "I know you were not sleeping! I never slept when you and father fought in the night after you thought John, Michael and I were sleeping …"
Surprised by Wendy, Mary looked up, from the words of her father, written years before, out of the past. "Really, Mother, don't fret over it. James and I have had our fair share of arguments and misunderstanding, and I'm sure my children will do the same as they grow up."
Mary stared at her beautiful daughter, crafted by God, one of a kind, created in the purest love. "Aunt Millicent told my father my unbecoming behavior that evening was a result of all that I had witnessed him do to my mother. She told him 'our children suffer for our sins, Joe, and all the evil we do to those entrusted to us by God receive the punishment for our own wrongs back threefold' … Three … Anyway, she told him at the rate he was going, 'poor Mary Elizabeth will find herself married to a horrible man that beats and cheats on her and is nothing but the foulest scum of the earth! And I, dearest brother, will never let that happen, if I have to personally handpick her husband myself!' " Mary imitated her aunt's haughty overdone tone, just as Aunt Millicent would have done had she been repeating her own words herself. "Or worse Joe, no man will want to marry her, for she is cold and unloving with a foul tongue and her father's awful and utterly reproachable temper."
"Saint Millicent told my father he must set a good example and treat my mother the way he would want me to be treated once I was married. 'If you want Mary Elizabeth to have a kind, forgiving, generous heart, Joe, perhaps you should show her what one looks like!' It was then I believe that his affairs ended, and he began doting on my mother. Then and only then did he treat her like a queen, hanging his hat and coat, in the door not even five minutes after his shop closed. He would then be attached to her apron strings for the evening. He said not one unkind word, and was polite as a priest, morning, noon and night. I thought it was over and my mother would finally have the peace and happiness she deserved. But all for naught, for after your father and I got married, he did all those horrible things to us, continuing my mother's never-ending punishment."
"After you were born and he wanted to make peace with us, your grandfather went to the church and prayed for God to help him. He knew he wasn't strong enough to conquer his demons without divine intervention. My mother said he came home a changed man, a completely different person she had never met before in her life. He wanted to make peace with her, and live happily ever after. 'We shall start over again, Elizabeth, as when we were newlyweds, and spend the rest of our lives madly in love!' He told her he had always loved her more than any other woman in the world, more than himself, and now, after all their years, he wanted to finally do right by her. But she would have none of it, for it was already too late for her. 'With all I have seen with my own eyes in this life, Joseph, I can tell you this much, given the choice, I would have preferred to die a spinster. After all, being married to you all these years has left me the same as I would have been unmarried - - old, alone and unloved.'
"My mother told him the only way she would ever forgive him and look for him in heaven was if he never married again, nor took another woman in his bed until he died. She laughed when she told me that on her deathbed, 'It'll never happen, Mary Elizabeth, so I need not worry my peaceful repose will be disturbed. I won't even be cold in the ground a week before he takes another woman as his wife…' " Wendy sat listening as her mother told the story, just like any other Mary had spoken when her own children resided in the nursery.
"That's why Grandpa Joe, widowed so young in life, never courted anyone else. He told me himself, Wendy, 'after my beloved Elizabeth, I could never allow another woman in my heart, for I must see your mother again, Mary Elizabeth. And I will see her in heaven if only for a moment, my dearest daughter, before I am made to spend my eternity in the hell that I am deserving of. I must return to your mother, her heart. She went to heaven without it.'"
"Jokingly I remarked to Grandpa Joe, 'Do not fret Father, if she has not asked for it back by now, that probably means she does not miss it.' And he replied without breath, Wendy, 'Oh no, Mary Elizabeth, the love that I have now for you and your family does not belong to me, but your mother. Her love has become the entirety of my heart. Her love is what changed me, Mary Elizabeth, and just because she has not asked for it back, does not mean she doesn't expect its return. Her heart remains on earth with me, and my own already burns in the fires of hell…"
Mary suddenly smiled at Wendy, touching her arm, "As I sit here now, Wendy, I can tell you my mother would have locked him out of heaven's gates with or without God's blessing, heart or not. And even though there was never another after she died, he probably had to beg St. Peter on his hands and knees for her whereabouts, because I know she was not there with her face pressed to the gates waiting for him. More likely, she was running away from him, never believing that would be the one promise he decided to keep. Oh, I can see her ducking behind clouds and blending in with the angels the moment she heard of his arrival at the pearly gates, and having kept his vow of chastity in his old age. I do hope they kissed and made their final peace in heaven, God bless them."
Mary gave it a second thought and looked heavenward, "Yes…I know they did."
Wendy giggled, so did Mary, but soon Mrs. George Darling became very solemn again, "But, his cruelty to her, Wendy, his hateful behavior when she was alive, during the time when he was supposed to love and take care of her … I could just never understand if she was so good to him …"
Mary grabbed Mrs. Josephine Darling's letter from Wendy. Clutching it, crinkling it up in a ball she explained, "But now I understand. He knew she had another before him, but she would never tell him who it was, and he punished her for it. He feared he was always secondhand to another. When he lost his mind, Wendy, you should have heard the things he told me when he thought I was she. If he truly knew the circumstances around it …"
"You would have never been able to marry Father," Wendy answered.
"My Aunt Millicent used to tell me my mother had had a mild flirtation with a gentleman whose identity she was unaware of. My mother let him have the honor, because he promised her the wealth of being a gentleman's wife. My mother's parents were very poor and lived on the outskirts of town. She was quite naïve, and, at the same time, was honestly and easily misled, wanting a better life for herself. But when he would not propose, or even introduce her to his family, she refused to continue on with him, fearing he would put her in the wrong way and abandon his responsibilities to her. When she met my father, although she was apprehensive of the same reoccurrence, he seemed different. He went home and met her parents, and then made her meet his parents the very same day. He proposed the day after that, and it went on from there. My father never wanted my mother to have anything to do with raising me into a woman. He feared I would make the mistakes she did, all the while he was unknowingly sending me in that direction, just as Millicent had warned. I never told your father that story, but I did tell your Uncle Harry … he was the one who put two and two together. He remembered my mother, he was only five but was there when Peter met my mother in their final confrontation, although he never knew she was my mother at the time."
"What did Peter say?" Wendy asked, still holding her mother's hands; the two letters fell off her lap to the floor.
"He told my mother he would kill her, but first he wanted one last go at her. He was beginning to strangle her when your father saved her. Harry said to never tell Grandpa Joe, for it would kill him. The guilt he felt over the way he treated my mother all those years without good reason tortured him in his sleep. Harry said my father spent many nights wide-awake at the tavern because he was afraid of his nightmares. Harry said Grandapa Joe saw the devil when he dreamed, a horrible creature unimaginable, that mocked him for playing right into his hands where my mother was concerned. The older he got the more faces of those he knew in life were sent to torment him, showing him their dark sides hidden away behind their smiles and cordial dispositions. The devil told my father that it was by his own hand, guided by Satan, that his wife was sent to an early grave, and I was to befall the same fate. Not by my father's hand, but by others, guided in the same manner. My father never told me of his nightmares, but he did tell me who had the devil's hand was once."
"Uncle Peter …" Wendy answered as she bent down to gather the two remaining letters. Her mother's next statement made Wendy jerk her head up to stare at Mary's blank expression.
"No, your father. Although I'm sure Peter Darling was also one of them, I suppose. Your grandfather called it 'the choosing of three'. I didn't think he knew what he was talking about at the time, as he was already going mad with dementia. Your Grandpa Joe told me the devil gets three tries to conquer and win a soul. To do this, he has to trade love with hate, good with evil, and life with death. He told me the devil uses different faces, seen and unseen, taking turns to hide in plain sight, all the while moving around in threes. Peter Darling was the first; your father, Wendy, was the second, and a boy who refused to grow up was the third."
Mary looked at Wendy, eyebrows raised, and Wendy shrugged her shoulders, only mumbling, "I'm sorry, Mother."
"I wonder mother, do you think the Good of God works the same way…in threes I mean." Wendy asked.
"I imagine so, Wendy, that's seems fair… Maybe Mrs. Frederick Darling was correct, somewhere in my life I made an appointment with Satan himself … Please, Wendy, let's talk about something else, here read your letters."
The last letter before George's was from Harry. It was dated for the time immediately following George's affair. It looked as thought had been read often.
Dear George,
I'm sorry I have not written in years, and I hope all is well. The last I heard of you and Mary, you were very happy with three children. Good on you, George. I have not fared so well. I am no longer working as a physician; I lost my practice a few years back and have been volunteering at the local hospital, doing charity care for the destitute. I think it rather ironic, Mother used to say that only the good die young, and here I am, a sinner sure to burn in hell, and I cannot even catch a cold from those I treat. I'm not sure how much you know of Charles, but he recently died of tuberculosis. I guess it's fair to say that's an incorrect statement about the good, he worked for the wealthy in an expensive convalescent home, and made his living stealing their jewelry and priceless possessions.
I'm not married and have no children, although I was close once. I had been involved with a young woman, who, I'll admit, was paid for her services to me. We were never to be married, but I made a simple mistake, the same as yours, and we were to have a child. We were only together a few times, and after not seeing her for a while, she presented me a rounded belly and her claim that I was the sire. I had been rather drunk at the time, and left it in her when I shouldn't have, leaving her in trouble.
I was to pay her the baby's weight in gold after it was born, and she was to let me keep it as my own, an unwed father, if you will. I told her I would not marry her, for I didn't love her, nor would I play house and treat her like the lady of polite society she was not. I should have kept a closer eye on her, though, and insisted she stay off the street corners. The baby died in childbirth, infected with a disease she contracted while continuing her activities for the time she carried. To tell her that would be to blame her for our baby's death, and seeing the misery of losing -- either the newborn or my money -- on her face, I conceded that it was my fault. The truth, as far as she was concerned, was that the cord wrapped around the baby's neck as I delivered her, and the child suffocated. She left me, paid in full for her time and poor efforts, and I moved far away from her and my memories of the daughter I would never know. Mother said it probably wasn't even my child to begin with, and I was foolish with my funds for being so gullible.
It is rather humorous; one would think with my reputation with the ladies I would have no trouble finding a wife. But, that could not be further from the truth. Absolutely George, I am the man to be seen on the arm of if it's dinner, dancing and a jolly good time out and about at night. But where it matters most to a man, especially in matrimony, not one of those girls that made themselves so available to me wants me for anything more than a good time. Its alright, I have yet to meet a proper young woman of polite society on my own adventures I would think worthy to hold the title Mrs. Harold Darling, and that George, is fine with me. If I should be made to expend money from my wallet to wine and dine a girl, I think I should be at least assured her company back in my bed when the night is complete. Therefore I have found, as I've grown older, prostitutes are simply better partners, temporary situations that involve little expectations on both our parts.
I'm sure Peter has given you the intimate details of my disgrace, but Peter, being the great imposter of the family, couldn't possibly have told you even half of it. The stories he and mother wove have me accidentally killing a boy while drunk. You know me, George; you know that's not true. I will not lie and tell you I don't drink, because I do, but I was not drunk nor senseless. There was a small child who was suffering mercilessly after surgery. He was a sad mess, cut from neck to navel with his incisions infected, not to mention whatever it was brewing under his skin that raised his fever to the boiling point. He was going to die. I am a doctor and I know he was. His mother was beside herself, the fatherless infant in so much pain. She did what she had to do to give her son relief. She smothered him with a pillow. What was I to do when I found them? A mother lost, now without her only child, and surely to rot in prison for the rest of her life. I lied to my supervisors and said I cut too deeply into the child while operating, and he died of internal bleeding. I was not drunk when I performed his surgery, nor was I drunk when I gave my statement. Mother added the liquor later to save herself the embarrassment of my failure in life.
I could never bring myself to practice medicine after her wicked rumors spread like wildfire. I asked her why she lied, and she told me Peter used to do that to his patients. But not to give them relief, he only felt that certain people should not be allowed to live. She told me I was no better than he was, and if he was not made to pay for his sins, someone should. She was judge, jury and executioner, as always, and therefore, I was the one who was to be crucified. I don't ever want to be compared to my brother Peter. I hate my brother.
I tried to kill myself with drink, so I'll assume that is why the drinking part is believable in mother's story. Peter helped her along, and spread awful rumors about me throughout the city I was living in. Nevertheless, after he ruined what was left of my reputation and destroyed all that was left of my life, I moved from there as well. I moved again, and he followed after me, almost chasing me down. And then once more, I moved before he met his wife and left for Paris. I'm still a vagabond of sorts, never staying one place very long out of fear he will find me.
I remember what he did to you when you were a small boy. I never told mother I was there, because I didn't want to find myself lying in bed beside you. You can think me a coward if you like George, maybe I am. But I became a doctor, George, to save children, all children. And I still do some work here and there. As soon as they discover who I am, I leave, although they always tell me it isn't necessary. I am hoping to start over again back home in London. But I will never be a physician again, not ever. Peter told me if I stopped practicing he would stop pursuing. As always, he is the only one worthy enough to be called "Doctor."
On my travels, I gathered Charles' belongings as well as mother's. Both left wills, oddly enough addressing you as chief executor.
I had to venture into hell to collect mother's things, luckily the devil was out that day and I never had to see Peter. Thank the Lord one of the girls from the dance hall said he's been out of town for some time. I think after all these years he is still jealous about Mary and me. Although I can't for the life of me imagine why, it was so many years ago and such a small infraction of his rules. I know you are married to her, but I have to confess at one time when she was very young, before you met her, I had quite a love lingering for her. I even asked if I could court her, but her aunt said no. Probably best, Mary has fared better in your care then she would have ever done in mine. You gave her children and a wife should have children. I could never be worthy enough of any woman to be called husband, let alone father to children, for that matter. My own life proves it.
But still it makes me fear for your own well being, and even the safety of your family. If Peter still searches me out and looks after my whereabouts to inflict punishment, I can only imagine what you must be in for. But I give my solemn vow, George, I may not have been there for you in the beginning, but I am here now. If you need me, I will be there, not just for you, but also for your family. Ask it of me George, anything, I will do it.
I am sending this to your work address and I hope it reaches you. I will not stop by your home or dare send a letter there, I do not wish to disturb the love and joy I'm sure is residing within.
Your brother,
Harry
Wendy cried as she read her uncle's letter. The tears came as she read of the child of Harry's that never was. Mary embraced her daughter as Wendy's eyes scanned the lines telling the story, almost word for word, of their own encounter. He was drunk and left it in her when he shouldn't have. She wondered if in fact he knew of their meeting long ago when she was still a young woman. So much like his own experience with herself, with one exception. Wendy had not conceived a child.
If he knew the truth as she went to him with her dilemma, telling him lie after lie as he gave her an examination, poking her womanhood and womb, searching for life residing within, why did he not say something? Her story about a gentleman unseen to him and her parents, he had taken only on her already questionable word. Why did he not confront her? He must have had his suspicions. But she dare not ask her mother. 'No, that would surely ruin everything. My mother can forgive certain things and others she would not. And he having it with me, his own niece, must be some sort of mortal sin in God's eyes. Mother would not only never forgive, but also never forget, and that would be with both of us,' Wendy told herself as she read further down, not absorbing any other part of his sad story.
'And what of James, and Captain Hook, neither of them were aware, but my mother would surely tell them both, and my father too would know if I spoke my fears out loud … And maybe, just maybe Harry really doesn't know, so if I said it, then he would know too. Maybe he knows, and doesn't want to know …' Wendy's mind raced. Then and only then did she truly discover the secrets of her mother's heart and why there would always be things hidden, unseen, out of sight and out of mind, not to be shared with another soul as long as she lived. And Wendy the woman was to do the same. Wendy said nothing, and reread Harry's letter, taking in every line and statement once more before finally speaking out loud.
Wendy began with the question of George and being sick as a boy at the hands of his brother Peter. Now she knew the story better than Mary, she had seen it with her own eyes in a dream. Therefore she allowed her mother to ramble what she knew of it and understood without interruption of further questions. When Mary had finished, Wendy shifted the conversation to another topic of interest.
"Did you know of the boy, Mother?" Wendy asked, rereading the letter several times.
"No, your father never told me. When I asked Harry of it long ago, he told me the story every one knows. After your father died, I confronted him with the letter and he told me it never mattered the real reasons, for as far as everyone was concerned, including me, he would always just be a drunk child killer."
"What did you say to that, Mother?"
"I told him I never thought of him that way. Not ever. Being the mother of four children, I should hate him, but I never did. I could never understand why that was. I suppose, perhaps in the back of my mind, I knew a man so gentle, so caring and selfless could never do something so horrible. He loves children, he always has. I'm not supposed to tell anyone this, so you cannot repeat it, but he still does dabble in medicine at the church mission in his free time and at the orphanage. He receives letters of gratitude for charity cares all the time, and he tucks those letters away in special drawer in his dresser, his own drawer of dreams, if you will. The truth lies hidden, as it always is wherever I am concerned."
Mary raised her head and inhaled, slowly releasing her breath before turning her undivided attention to Wendy. Mary took her daughter by the hand and gazed about her new bedroom. Wendy repeated her actions. The old nursery was the glorious room of an older woman, now that Mary lived there. She had changed everything and made it new in there as well. It was a room fit for a queen. The indulgences of an extravagant chaise lounge, new rug and lovely wallpaper hung a month before, a white background with pink rose bouquets evenly placed throughout, and real roses of the reddest buds placed in a grand china vase were all gifts from Harold Darling.
"There is something you need to know, Wendy, that I have never told another living soul …and you need to know it for my heart has held this secret long enough…" Mary fell silent and clutched her daughter's hand tightly. "I committed adultery against your father, Wendy. It was with his brother, your Uncle Harry, God forgive me."